


Joy of Cooking

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 11 year interim, Aziraphale (Sister Frances), Crowley (Nanny Ashtoreth), Crowley has to Face His Emotions Like An Emotionally Mature Being, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, God is a Kitchen Witch, Heartbreaking meta disguised as friendly theological debate between two hereditary enemies?, In MY fic? More likely than you think!, Ineffable Wives, Sister Frances - Freeform, Warlock - Freeform, Warlock is presumed the anti-christ, Warlock kinda sorta has powers, a 4 year old as a stand in for God, building the world, burnt cookies as fallen angels, can anyone be inherently Bad or Good or is God is just cruel, cookies as a metaphor for trauma, expectations override reality, if you’re an angel and a demon who believe something a lot, making cookies, nanny ashtoreth - Freeform, so sometimes, the universe is made of shortbread and other things, where we tackle topics like, with a four year old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25188007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Nanny Ashtoreth is doing her damndest to instill the virtues vices a young Prince of Darkness. So, she teaches him about how the universe was made so that he can eventually remake it when he’s 11 and grown into his birthright.On her day off, she ends up giving Warlock a more hands-on lesson, patching together shortbread biscuits the same way God did in Her cottage at the Edge of the Universe before it was made when She created the angels. All the while telling Warlock the story of how She made the Earth and the Firmament and even Crowley herself.But somehow, those sorts of thoughts don’t seem to end on a high note for Nanny… Luckily, Sister Frances is here to help. Or try to, at least.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 62
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang, ineffable wives or female presenting





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this fic, connected with the Do It With Style Minibang is done by [MagpieWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieWords)as a podfic [here!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25187380)
> 
> The first chapter of that will go up later today, so please check it out!
> 
>  _Please Also Note_ : That while it is played up a little for comedy purposes in the tags, there is a very real discussion of trauma and the cycles of abuse (and the breaking of them and learning to cope with having been emotionally abused by a parental figure, aka God). 
> 
> Please keep that in mind while reading and while Crowley loves Warlock very much, Crowley isn't fully cognizant of how she acts/reacts/thinks about things like the Fall and how harmful it really is. She wouldn't harm Warlock on purpose but does have a skewed idea of how she's meant to raise him (in part because of demon-Antichrist thing, and in part because of demon-Falling thing). This of course is _not_ saying that Crowley is right to do such things, knowingly or not, but is not idealized or romanticized in text whatsoever.

“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” ― Carl Sagan, _Cosmos_

* * *

“Nanny?” Warlock mumbled sleepily, “I’m not tired.” Crowley raised an eyebrow at that.

“Of course you are, dear. And just what did I say about lying?” She asked sternly, stopping on her way to bring the hellspawn to his bed, to look him in the eye, letting her bright yellow gaze peek over the rims of her sunglasses.

Warlock, of course, had never been afraid of her eyes, liked them even and Crowley had been able to report a stunning casualness in the face of outright demonic and evil activity, for which she’d been golf-clapped rudely. Remarkable achievement in Hell, really.

“You said,” Warlock sighed dramatically, which she was also quite proud of, “that if I’m gonna lie, gotta do it good.”

“Well.” Crowley corrected absentmindedly, but continued walking, shuffling the antichrist in her hold so he could wrap his stubby arms around her neck—yes, just like that, when you’re older it’ll be a perfect stranglehold, my little dragon, hold on tight—and let him bury his head into the crook of her neck. “But, young prince-of-this-world, that was quite a good first step in your mischief. What was the next going to be?”

Warlock groaned and wriggled in her arms so that she nearly dropped him, only stilling once she hissed under her breath and held him tight against her chest. Usually it was simply a matter of waiting, and Nanny had something bordering on infinite patience, at least where Warlock was concerned.

“Was gonna say you had ta tell me a story, Nanny.” Warlock grumbled after a child’s eternity passed, “And I was gonna mis-chiv and tie all Jeeve’s shoes together if you didn’t.” Crowley smiled slyly and tapped Warlock’s cheek fondly. The butler was, of course, not _actually_ named Jeeves, but he took the compliment admirably whenever Nanny and young master Warlock were around. Mr. Ainsworth was a bit harder for a four year-old to say, antichrist or no.

“Ah, an ultimatum, masterfully done, my little dark lord. Just as you ought.” Crowley adjusted Warlock a little higher on her hip with a huff. “But, my dear, just why would _I_ care if you made mischief for the butler? Why would you choose that to punish _me_ for not giving you what you wanted?” Crowley emphasized the correct pronunciation of mischief.

Warlock didn’t take quite as long to think about it as Crowley thought he would and his answer was a bit surprising. “Jeeves and you were talkin’ an’ he was bein' nice and a maid said he was,” Warlock screwed up his face and very carefully continued, “in-tre-stid in you. An’ she said it was _lucky_. So ‘f I made him get mad, you wouldn’t be lucky.”

Crowley stopped short in front of Warlock’s door and raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh really now, did she? How _interesting…_ ” she muttered before pushing her way into the room, not bothering to flick on the lights. She could see perfectly fine as it was and Warlock didn’t need to go anywhere.

“And that’s how you were going to punish me? Make me _un_ lucky?” Crowley asked, setting Warlock on the bed and crossing to the wardrobe to pick out sleeping clothes for the boy. “I suppose that could work, but you’d have an easier time of it if your ultimatums or threats were against something I actually liked.”

“Like Sister Frances?” Warlock asked after a few moments of thought, raising his arms for Crowley to change out his shirt.

“Now what makes you think I like anything at all? Let alone Sister Frances. Most everyone else seems to think I hate her.” Crowley continued the conversation, even though it was waking Warlock up, making him think like this, rather than putting him to sleep. Warlock, of course, had always liked when she asked him about “tactics”—especially when he was destroying block cities with his dinosaur toys—and was happily responsive.

“You smile at her.” Warlock shrugged again, “An’ she gets to see your eyes. Only me an’ Frances get to see your eyes. And I know you like me ‘cause I make you.”

“Ah, that’s true. I am but a humble servant to your whims, my little dragon.” Crowley smiled a little too fondly, a little too softly, and tapped Warlock’s cheek. “Very well then. It was a decent try, I’ll give you that. But _next_ time, you’ll have to do better if you want a story. Understood, Warlock?”

“Yes!” Warlock jumped onto his bed and shoved himself under the covers messily. Crowley could, of course, only approve of the chaos. She tucked him in and took her usual seat by the bed.

“Alright, my great beast.” Crowley began slowly, letting her words fill her mouth and a story spin itself behind her eyes. “Let me tell you about how the world was made. So that when you reshape it and bend it to your will, you know what to do.

* * *

In the beginning, Warlock, there was nothing. Not any toys or houses, or even the sky. Everything was black and a little like your soup when nothing has been added yet. Flavorless and empty.

But there was someone. She doesn’t have a name that you or I can pronounce and She lived on the edge of the universe, even before it all began. She built herself a little cottage, just like you see when we go driving sometimes. With a thatch roof and plaster walls and pretty flowers in the windows. She also made herself a private little garden in the back of Her cottage and filled it with all sorts of teas and spices. She filled her backyard with fruit trees and all those things that people living on their own in the countryside think they need to be happy.

She made the light and the dark, and called them Day and Night. She liked it like that, for a very long time. Days and Nights passed as She liked, and it was always the perfect amount of sun and warmth. Every day She made Herself chai from leaves and spices in Her garden or sometimes hot cocoa if She thought the nothingness outside should be colder. She dried Her herbs and baked things She liked, and whiled away Her days just like that for a long, long time.

But then She grew lonely, even if She hadn’t known what loneliness was yet, She was finding it out now. So, She gathered up all the unmixed things in the universe, drank Her morning cup of chai, and set about making things.

She took Her rolling pins and spoons and bowls and She brought out the flour, the sugar, and the butter. She mixed it all up into a dough and–

Oh, well. Sleep well, Warlock…

And dream of the things you like best.

* * *

“Nanny!” Warlock screamed, barreling into her room at top speed, chased by a maid who was chanting ‘ _oh no, oh no, oh nonononono–’_ under her breath. It was Nanny’s day off, and everyone _knew_ not to mess with Nanny’s one day off in a week.

Emmeline, the unfortunate maid in question, stopped short at the doorway and slapped her hands over her mouth at Warlock’s flying leap and dive into Ashtoreth’s bed, landing directly on the woman.

“Ms. Ashtoreth, I’m so sorry!” Emmeline whispered, horrified at seeing the normally unflappable woman, always dressed so smartly, in nothing more than a silk nightgown, her hair still tied up for the night, and no makeup or sunglasses.

Her eyes remained closed even as she sat up, manhandling Warlock into her arms with an ease Emmeline was jealous of. Emmeline was also a bit jealous of Warlock, being picked up by Ms. Ashtoreth, but she’d not mention _those_ thoughts to anyone.

“Ms. Fulton?” Ms. Ashtoreth’s voice was low and raspy and _proper Scottish,_ having very obviously been interrupted in her sleep and a shiver went down Emmeline’s spine. She held her breath and clasped her hands in front of her, turning her eyes down to the carpeted floor.

“Ye– I mean yes, Ms. Ashtoreth?” The soft sounds of feet padding closer matched her heartbeat as it pounded behind her ribs and she could feel the heat coming off her cheeks and the back of her neck, sure she was red as a tomato.

“Just _how_ did young Mister Warlock here get away from you so thoroughly, hm?” Ms. Ashtoreth asked, an almost disinterested air of politeness around her that made Emmeline quake in her plain, black work clogs.

“I, um, well, he was really quite fast you know– and I mean, he—Warlock that is—took off at a run after having a– a bit of a fit, ma’am and–”She shut up with a squeak when Ms. Ashtoreth stepped close enough that her bare legs came into view. Emmeline thought she could feel her entire face burn, on the verge of ignition or explosion when Ms. Ashtoreth _sighed_ like she was disappointed.

“I’m so, _so_ sorry, Ms. Ashtoreth, I didn’t mean to let him bother you, I swear! I’ll take him back to the play room and– and I can bring you up your breakfast and coffee, if you want! I’m so sorry I–” Emmeline squeaked again when a firm finger pressed against her lips.

“It’s alright, Ms. Fulton. I understand he’s a _proper_ menace.” Emmeline nearly fainted in relief, even if the redness in her face didn’t have the decency to go down, though it was a bit odd, perhaps, that Ms. Ashtoreth sounded almost proud of Warlock’s menacing. She chanced a glance up at Ms. Ashtoreth’s face and swayed a little at how _green_ her eyes were.

“And, since you seem to be the one running after our dear little menace when I’m off, you may call me Innana.” Ms. Ashto– Inanna said smoothly. Emmeline wasn’t entirely sure how she managed to make it back to the kitchens after a promise to return with breakfast for Warlock and Nanny, but made it she did, shaky knees and thoughts overwhelmed by bright green eyes and all.

“Emmeline! Pay attention to where you’re going, girl!” The cook snapped, “And what happened to you? You look like you could fry an egg on your face. Do I need to give the boys down at the gardens a talking to?”

“N– no ma’am, I’m fine! But could I help put together Warlock’s breakfast? Nanny decided to take hers with him too, today…”

* * *

“Now, Warlock,” Nanny sighed sternly at the boy in her arms, who was pouting rather fervently. “Just what did you think you’d accomplish by running into my room this early. You _know_ I’m not available on Wednesdays, hellspawn.”

Warlock only grumbled and turned his pout to her shoulder, she’d attempted to cover up at least somewhat with a dressing gown, despite the child on her hip, and hid his face from her. He mumbled something petulant that even she couldn’t make out and she shuffled him over to her other hip, pulling on the rest of the gown, even if she couldn’t tie it just yet.

“Come now, my little dragon,” Crowley crooned, running a finger down Warlock’s nose and tapping his cheek, “Tell Nanny what’s wrong. I thought you were going to spend the day with your mother, hm?”

Warlock went limp in her arms and she tightened her grip so he wouldn’t fall with a grimace. The menace. He sighed again, loudly, but muttered despondently, “She forgot.”

“She forgot, did she? About all of today?” Crowley frowned, mightily displeased. She’d expected more of Harriet; the woman certainly wasn’t a bad sort, but hadn’t ever wanted kids as far as Crowley could tell, and tended to be focused and driven with her own plans, often forgetting there were others who needed her input as well. Unfortunately, more often than not, it was Warlock getting the short end of that stick. Crowley honestly wasn’t sure if it was for better or for worse that she was posing as a Nanny, considering Harriet might be more inclined to make Warlock part of her schedule if he hadn’t had any other primary caretaker available…

Well, of course it was _worse_ , she was a _demon_. Crowley carefully didn’t think about how much easier it would be, all around, if Warlock had simply been human. With human loves and human feelings and human lack of world-rending-powers. No, Crowley very carefully avoided those charybdian thoughts.

“Ya. Leavin’ now, for a _week_.” Warlock grumped and then threw his arms around his nanny’s neck just the way she taught him and shook as Crowley calmly pet his back soothingly, humming some indistinct tune.

“Yes, alright.” Crowley only barely stopped herself from growling at the elder Dowlings, though her brogue thickened some, and instead crushed the child against her chest and kissed the side of his head. “It’s alright, Warlock, Nanny’s here.”

“And Emmeline?” Warlock asked quietly, a little timid.

“Emmeline?” Crowley echoed, confused, “Who?”

“Who?!” Warlock shouted sharply, and suddenly enough that Crowley jerked him away for her ear’s sake. “The maid!” He screeched and flailed with his fists and feet, face red and eyes welling up with loud tears.

Crowley sighed and tossed the raging child onto her bed before running a hand over her face. At least there he could have his fit until he tired of it and she wouldn’t be bruised. Rough handling from antichrists and angels, apparently, were the only things that could leave bruises on her skin without her wanting them….

A few minutes of ignoring the boy later, Crowley had taken her hair out of the rag curls they were tied up in, put on her sunglasses, and tied her gown closed. Warlock had calmed and pushed himself off the bed, returning to Crowley. She remained in front of her vanity but turned on the stool to face Warlock and waited patiently for him to speak.

Instead, he raised his arms and looked up at her with quivering lips. Crowley’s lips thinned and realized that, for some reason, this moment felt important, more so than any tantrum he’d thrown before. So, she sighed softly and picked him up, letting Warlock sit in her lap.

“What went wrong?” Crowley asked softly, holding Warlock loosely in case he wanted to wiggle out of her lap. While a certain amount of spoiled was to be expected from the antichrist, Crowley wouldn’t abide by any sort of future commander that didn’t know how to explain himself, not if she had any say in it. So, these sorts of debriefs after a fit where he told her what he was feeling and, sometimes, how she ought to deal with it—with the occasional correction from herself as to what was _his_ responsibility to correct—were common enough that he knew what to expect from them.

“Showed her your eyes.” Warlock whispered hoarsely, wiping at his face.

 _Ah,_ thought Crowley dumbly.

“And I don’t _wanna_ share you.” Warlock fisted his hands in Crowley’s gown and pulled at it rudely, “You’re _my_ nanny.” Crowley nodded and hummed, stroking the back of Warlock’s head and leaning against the vanity for support, pulling Warlock along with her to lay against her chest.

“You’re right, my dear,” She murmured soothingly, “I’m _your_ nanny, and if you don’t want to, you don’t have to share me. That’s your right, as the great beast, my little dragon.”

“Then she can’t see your eyes anymore!” Warlock commanded sternly, burying his face against her dressing gown between his hands. “Okay?”

“As you wish, my prince. As you wish.” Crowley pet his hair until there was a knock at the door and she stood, with the boy in her arms, to answer it.

“Ah, Ms. Fulton, just put the trays on the reading nook, we’ll eat on the cushions.” Crowley stepped aside for the woman to bustle through and pointedly looked at Warlock all the while, who chanced a peek up at her face and looked ready to cry again because of it.

“Inanna, I–” Emmeline started shyly and blushed just as red as before when Crowley stepped close, Crowley’s hip just barely brushing Emmeline’s hand at her side. Crowley, of course, was _quite_ capable of flirting and making a menace of herself without eye contact—she was, after all, one _hell_ of a nanny.

“Thank you, Emmeline.” Crowley still didn’t look away from Warlock, even as she spoke to Emmeline, “That will be all for now. Please let Cook know Warlock and I will be in the kitchen before lunch, and to take out some flour, butter, and sugar for us to make biscuits with.”

“Yes– of course, Ms. Ash– Inanna!” Emmeline fled from the room, though she still had enough wits about her to shut the door softly behind her.

“Now, Warlock, let’s eat breakfast, and then we can get dressed for the day. Alright?” Crowley bargained firmly and felt a little knot untangle behind her breastbone when Warlock nodded adamantly, in much better humor than he had before.

* * *

A few hours later, and the two of them had eaten, placed their trays outside Crowley’s room, and gotten dressed in something a little more casual than normal. She wasn’t, technically, meant to teach Warlock anything today, so the standard governess outfit wasn’t necessary. Instead, Crowley wore long, loose, black trousers that hid the slight heel in her equally dark shoes and sat high up on her waist, paired with a billowing wine-red shirt. More color than normal, but it matched her lipstick, so it would do.

“Are we gonna make the universe, Nanny?” Warlock asked innocently as he reached up to tangle his hand in her fingers, trotting to keep up with her pace down to the kitchens. Crowley resolutely didn’t think it was cute every time it happened, and _certainly_ resisted the urge to call him a duckling. It would be entirely improper of the wrong—er right?—sort.

“Yes, my little destroyer of worlds, today we learn to make the universe.” And if Crowley squeezed the hand of the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness back, well then no one but the two of them had to know.

And so, Crowley led Warlock to the kitchen and smiled to herself when he demanded tea first, because that’s how the story started last night. And, she suspected, it was all he really remembered of it considering he hadn’t insisted they search for tea leaves in the garden as well. But, ever the dutiful servant, Crowley put the kettle on and helped Warlock onto a chair so he could stand tall enough to reach the counter.

“Alright, young master Warlock,” Crowley grinned, flashing sharp teeth at the boy, and leaned forward with an elbow on the table and chin in her hand. “How do you want your tea?”

Warlock smiled back before remembering himself and pulled on a distinctly snooty air that Crowley couldn’t help likening to Aziraphale at his primmest, “Black as night and sweet as sin, Nanny!” Warlock chanted dutifully, it did help that he liked his tea sweet and wasn’t particularly keen on milk. That and Crowley had never scolded him for making faces about food or drink as long as he tried it.

“As you like it, my little Lord of Darkness.” Crowley nodded and brewed them a pot of Lady Grey tea, sweetening it directly in the teapot as it steeped. She’s never had much reverence for anything, let alone things so untenable as tradition for the sake of it, not when efficiency and innovation came calling.

After a few moments of busying herself around the kitchen and reading a note cook left of the amounts she had already measured out for them. “Right, then, young master. Do you remember the story I started telling you last night?” Crowley asked.

Warlock thought for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, the world was empty soup and a lady who lived in it with flowers! Must’a been like Sister Frances, probably,” Warlock divulged his very critical thinking skills before jumping back on track, “And she made tea!”

Crowley smiled softly and was glad for her glasses at the thought of Aziraphale being likened to God at the edge of the universe with how she ripped up and desecrated the garden beyond the window. “Ah, yes, something like that. But don’t let Sister Frances hear you say that, she doesn’t like empty soup….” Crowley crooned, pulling a large mixing bowl onto the kitchen island and a hand mixer that found itself very confused at being downgraded to a manual thing with a crank on the side rather than its sleek electrical design.

Usually Crowley was all for the newest sort of device and keeping up with a sleek interior design of her flat, but she was Nanny Ashtoreth right now. A human like Nanny Ashtoreth was certainly cool and exacting enough that something like a hand whisk requiring a bit of manual labor wouldn’t ruin her image. In fact, it simply made more sense for Nanny Ashtoreth to have a manual hand whisk, considering it would certainly build character.

“So, now that the butter is set to soften, and the tea is finished steeping, why don’t I tell you a little more of the story, and about how the universe was made while we drink, hm?” Crowley asked, turning to look at Warlock with a faint smile. Warlock, nearly always willing to listen to and please Nanny when Sister Frances wasn’t around to steal any of his loyalties with candy, nodded his head and sat cross-legged in the chair, holding his hands out over the table for tea.

Crowley, for her part, rather expected the cup to fly over to adhere to his whims. She grimaced when the teacups by the pot rattled and scooted over half an inch just as soon as she thought that, before they settled again. Four really was too young—if anyone bothered to ask Crowley her opinion—for antichrists to start coming into their power...

* * *

Like I mentioned before, young Beast who is called Dragon, there was empty soup in the beginning. Full of nothing and nothingness. And one Woman had set up shop at the edge of all that and made Herself a garden and a little thatch-roof cottage– yes, just like the kind Sister Frances lives in out in the back of the lawns.

She made the night and the day and also tea and flowers in Her little garden, and even made cocoa so it could be drunk. For a very long time, She was happy like this, until She got to a point where She wasn’t. She grew lonely and sad and sulked about on her couch wishing for friends or, perhaps, children.

So one morning, after Her brilliant idea to make children, She made her tea as normal and took it in the kitchen—

Yes, just like we are now, Warlock—

And She set out the flour, like we have here, the sugar, and the butter. We’re going to whisk the butter up, just like She did, until it turns lighter and looks like whipped cream. Go on, little dragon, you’re doing fine, and when you get tired of it just let Nanny know and we can summon plenty of creatures both great and small to do your bidding.

Just like that, you’ve done it masterfully. Now, next She added in sugar, because She likes sweet things and has a bit of a sweet tooth– ah, yes, I suppose that’s also like Sister Frances… You shouldn’t tell her things like that either. Sister Frances will start thinking too much of herself if you do. Yes, get an ego large enough you won’t be able to go through doorways, well-remembered dear hellspawn. But not you, of course, you’re meant to rule the world, and see? We’re already most of the way there with the cookies.

Don’t eat the– you know what you’re right, we can make more. But if you get sick it’s your own fault… and make sure to throw up in the hedges instead of the hallways.

Yes, yes, little Warlock, it’s very good, but we’ve got to continue– yes fine.

Start creaming the butter again. No butter? Ah, why don’t you try looking again, I think you missed it, see? All soft and ready to whip up. Very well done, my little hellspawn.

Let me take over, mon petit prince des ténèbres. No more butter and sugar, they’re called whipped shame sticks for a reason, dear dragon. Now that we’ve thoroughly whipped this up, can you measure out two cups of flour for me, Warlock? Yes, correct, just like that, add the first cup in carefully.

Ah yes, you’re right, the story I was telling you, about the woman at the edge of the universe. She did just the same as we’re doing now, with the flour and butter and sugar, though I don’t believe She ate her first batch. And at the edge of the universe, things are a little different than here. There the butter and flour and sugar is made from thought, yes that’s correct, pulled out from the nothing soup She had around her cottage and formed into what She liked best with a wave of her hand. Quite a bit like magic indeed, young master, quite a bit indeed…

Now that everything is mixed up, we turn the bowl over. Here, let me help with that, and we coat it with flour. Take some flour in your hand, Warlock, and we spread it like this, like sand through your fingers when you’re playing outdoors. Yes, exactly like that. And we smooth it over before we use the rolling pin to flatten it. Mhm, well done.

Yes, dear prince, you’ve beaten it into submission, laid it flat before you. Your father would surely be proud. Yes, I know your earthly father doesn’t like hand-made biscuits, but your mother would be proud too… Yes, I know, you little hellion! She’s on a diet of some sort. Fine then, _I’m_ proud, will that suffice?

Now, we have our pastry cutters here, yes they’re shaped like angels. That’s what _She_ made first, creatures to keep Her company that are each made special and with care. Or, at least, that’s what She’d say, if you asked Her. Or would if you got a response.

There we are, oh, no, that’s quite alright, Warlock, it’s fine. Your first angel doesn’t need a head. The first one didn’t keep hold of his very long either to be fair… See? All better now—and how about we don’t tell your father what I said about him, hm? Our little secret, my little dragon.

We’ve got a few handfuls here, alright, gently put them on the baking trays, just like that. I’ve got all sorts of colors here for painting. Strawberries, Blueberries, Apples, Blackberries, Peaches, and Raspberries, we’ll grind them before you and mix them with some yolk before painting the biscuits. Which do you want to pulverize first?

Raspberries, a capital choice. This here is a mortar and pestle, we use them to grind things by hand by scraping them with the pestle over the little pits and bumps there, can you feel them Warlock? Imagine all your enemies, when you crush them under your heel, or your pestle if you prefer, when they bow before you and the world is yours at hand to remake as you like, that they will be ground to dust and bits just like this fruit.

It’s freeze-dried. Lovely inventions, fabulous really. Put some of the raspberries, oh, and peaches too I suppose, that’ll work just fine, and take hold at the small end. Well done, and here, let me guide you, ‘round in circles and scrape everything ‘cross the bottom. Superb, my dear destroyer of kings!

Alright, we’ll put that into a little cup here, and you get started on the painting bits. This is how the Woman in Her cottage made us– angels too, and how the rest of the universe was eventually made. Mixed up and rolled out, modeled into shapes and painted until they were given a spark of life in Her oven and atop Her stove.

Mix up the powder in the egg yolk until it’s all the same color, and add in a few of those drops of water with your fingers—like so—and then you can use the brush to paint. Lovely color, little adversary, exceptional. Now, you can design whatever you like on these. The wings, their hair, their clothing, and eyes even. Whatever you wish. And tell me what colors you want and I’ll do the rest of it for you…

* * *

Warlock spent his time happily humming away, broken little bits of his favorite bedtime songs from Nanny—and some that Sister Frances had taught him—and even the rhythmic pat-a-cake tune once that the cook had taught him and occasionally played with him when he was _exceptionally_ bored.

Nanny dutifully provided all the colors he demanded, as was his right, she said, and he painted with clumsy fingers all the angels he liked. He was planning on showing Nanny _her_ angel cookie once they were done. And then probably bite the head off it like she told him to when eating anything with a face.

They spent a few hours like this, Warlock predominantly in intense concentration, occasionally asking for more colors and making Nanny paint the boring parts like hair or dresses until she fondly called him “my little dictator” and he knew he’d been approved of. It was something of a miracle, surely, that neither the cook nor any of the rest of the household staff required access back into the kitchen during this time. Or, perhaps, it was simply Nanny’s stern glare from behind impersonal black glasses anytime someone attempted to sneak in for an ill-advised midday snack while she was busy looking any sort of homely. Whatever it was, Warlock was blissfully undisturbed in his painting.

As Warlock finished the coloration of various angels, Crowley moved them to baking sheets. The second one made her stop briefly; her heart, her lungs, her everything was out of time for only a few moments. Warlock had made _her,_ he’d painted dark cherry hair on her and pomegranate robes and given her sweet, white peach wings…

"Nanny! I'm done!" Warlock screeched with the joy only a small child could dream of, and under his watchful eye, Crowley placed all three trays in the oven. Usually ovens didn't have more than two racks at a time, but Crowley hadn't ever thought of reality as much of an obstacle before so Cook was getting an upgrade whether she wanted one or not.

With all three trays in the miraculously preheated oven, miraculous only because Crowley had forgotten about that part being necessary until Warlock had finished his painted angels, she set the timer for 14 minutes—two minutes for each Day—and helped Warlock clean off his hands. She'd snap the kitchen clean afterwards, but had no intention of doing the work herself. Sloth was, after all, a vice Crowley was more than adept at partaking in.

In the meantime they played pat-a-cake, marking it with an M for 'monster and me,' until the oven dinged and Crowley sat up straight, suddenly still as the grave and all her laser-focus attention on the oven.

* * *

“Now, Warlock,” Nanny said, uncommonly seriously, which made Warlock sit up straighter and look at her with wide eyes to meet her gaze. It was sharp and hard and a little cold even, paired with a frown that made Warlock want to run away and hide under his bed, even though he _knew_ he hadn’t done anything wrong.

She handed him special oven-gloves and opened the door to the oven, beckoning him over; and Warlock was a little too scared to say no. Nanny was acting weird and it was frightening, not because he thought she would hurt him or anything like that, but just because. Well. It suddenly didn’t feel like it was _his_ nanny here anymore…

“Choose two trays, Warlock. Two thirds of your creation.” Nanny said, gently this time, though no less firm than before.

“Yes, Nanny.” Warlock muttered, his voice barely a whisper as he trembled and felt like he was making a choice that somehow was about a lot more than cookies. So, he picked the first tray that looked done, and had the brightest colors with the cookies he liked best, and Nanny held the outside of his hands to help him take it out of the oven without dropping the tray, and set it down on the counter.

They returned to the oven and Warlock looked up at Nanny and grimaced, feeling a lot like he was about to cry. But Big Boys don’t cry, his daddy said, so he sniffled them back, even if Nanny hadn’t ever said anything about it. But she kept calling him _little_ dragon or other little things, so he couldn’t cry if he wanted to be a Big Boy for her.

“Why can’t I take them all out?” He tried to wheedle and whine, “They’re all done, right?” Everything got done together in the baking shows Sister Frances sometimes watched with him on Nanny’s days off, if she didn’t have to weed that day.

Nanny paused for a moment, looking him in the eyes again, and the black parts of hers were so thin Warlock almost couldn’t see them, and the yellows were almost too big to see any of the white between her eyeliner.

"Because the things you make, the people, will always disappoint you, because they're people. You're four now, nearly halfway to your heritage, and it's high time you learned. People,” Nanny murmured darkly, “will always disappoint you. And when they do, darling dragon, you _burn_ them."

Warlock's lower lip trembled and he sniffled a little but nodded at Nanny when she grabbed his wrists and rubbed her thumbs over the underside soothingly. "Alright, Nanny." He repeated dutifully, hissing just a little through his teeth, just like he'd been taught, "Gonna burn diss'pointments."

"Splendid." Nanny turned him around so he was facing the open oven again, standing over him and bent down just enough that he could feel her shoulder beside his head. The gaping maw of the oven felt a lot like Nanny said humans thought Hell was like, fiery and destructive. "Now choose, dear." She murmured in that same iron-shod voice as before.

Warlock pointed and ignored the tear that fell down his cheek until he could wipe it dry when Nanny looked away as she took the tray out of the oven.

"Well done, little Dragon." Warlock didn't like when she forgot the "my" in his nicknames.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please know that I got called a complete and utter bitch for this chapter, but we're finishing up!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trauma is addressed, along with Aziraphale making it clear that while she cares for Crowley, the way Warlock is being treated isn't right. Crowley is traumatized and that is _not her fault_. However! It _is_ her responsibility to not be abusive herself, for the sake of those she cares about.
> 
> It's hard, to break the cycle, very much so! And not everything is fixed in one day, and it's hard to handle and deal with, none of that will be downplayed. But it is very, very important to put in the effort.
> 
> While it may not be _your fault_ , for trauma or mental illness, it is your responsibility to cope and not harm others. And to go on that journey.

The door into the kitchen from the garden outside, ostensibly the servant’s entrance, opened and didn’t bother to creak or stutter underneath the gentle hand of an angel. There was a jolly smile on the gardener's face—Sister Frances was rarely seen without one, and quite a few of those around the house thought it might very well be a sign of the End Times if she frowned at anyone except for the Nanny.

Aziraphale had been about to call out to Crowley and Warlock, but the soft hiccough of a quiet sob stopped her in her tracks. Crowley sat on a stool with Warlock on her lap, the slightly sweet, burning smell of char wafting from the oven in front of them. Streaks of tears ran down Warlock's cheeks, but instead of letting him bury his face in his Nanny's shoulder, Crowley's hand held him firmly by the jaw and forced him to look into the oven.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale shouted. She bustled over to the oven to turn it off, opening all the windows to the outdoors with a wave of her hand as she threw the oven door open. Without further thought, Aizraphale grabbed the tray of biscuits still in the oven and moved to throw them out the window, so they'd at least stop stinking up the kitchen.

But then Warlock screamed; and if that hadn't stayed her hand, Crowley's low, hissing _"See?"_ would have done. It felt like ice down her spine, sounded like Crowley's "how kind" back in Mesopotamia after he mentioned God's promise of a rainbow.

"Crow– Inanna Ashtoreth!" Aziraphale scolded loudly, letting the biscuit tray fall to the stovetop with the smoke still floating off it. She put her hand on her hips, arms akimbo, uncaring that her hands would have been burnt if she were a human. Crowley had told her, some time ago, that Warlock already knew there was something off about them, and so neither of them were quite as careful as they perhaps ought to have been around the boy, especially as he grew older.

Crowley offered no reply except to stand; still holding Warlock, though this time it was in her arms rather than by his head. Aziraphale rarely resented Crowley's fluidity and ease of motion, especially when she found her own corporation pleasant enough in all its softness, but right now she did. She couldn't help the acrid anger that welled up in her chest whenever Crowley taught Warlock such terrible lessons, and yet Warlock's love for his Nanny never faltered. Aziraphale quickly pushed those sorts of thoughts down and buried them in boxes six feet below her consciousness. They felt a little too close to blasphemy, somehow, for her taste.

"Ssstep assside, Sssisster Fransscesss Fell." Crowley hissed quietly, standing right in front of Aziraphale and managing to _loom_ threateningly even with a snotty, tear-streaked Warlock in her arms. No doubt the towering aura of menace was due to those wicked heels she insisted on wearing.

And then Warlock sniffled, tears running down his cheeks. Something snapped along her spine, deep in the core of her. like a harp string under too much pressure fracturing with a discordant twang. That Warlock seemed to have given up entirely on trying to do anything at all to stop Crowley spoke of too many things Aziraphale simply could not/would not let stand any longer. Not when Warlock looked so distraught from Nanny's latest attempt at rearing him. No matter that she'd overlooked other little games and teaching tools, just as she was meant to, in order for Crowley to teach him of his demonic heritage. She would not allow it when this time the lesson was so obviously _too much_.

"Step aside?!" Aziraphale's eyes widened in worry and anger. She moved closer, prying Warlock out of Crowley's arms and huddling him against her chest, feeling all the more righteous for the way he hid his face in her shoulder and shook quietly. "I shan't, Crow– Ashtoreth! You are being _highly_ irresponsible– you're _scaring_ him, my dear!" She snapped at Crowley. In her distress, she could feel her own angelic energy rising to meet the challenge of a demonic adversary, and she prayed Warlock kept his head buried in her soft shoulder where he could not see the plasma glow of her eyes.

"I–" Crowley took a stumbling step back, her hips hitting the counter of the island in the kitchen. "I'm… scaring him?" She trembled and finally looked down at Warlock with eyes that seemed to see again. Gone was the glazed look, and the feeling that Crowley was looking at things that weren't really there at all.

"I just– I simply don't know what you were trying to teach him, my dear." Aziraphale said after a few moments. Crowley sat back down on the stool with an inelegant fall. She mumbled something and took off her sunglasses, tossing them haphazardly onto the island counter, where they skid dangerously, before running her hands over her face.

"Just _what_ was all that?"

"I don't know, aright?! I–" Crowley's voice cracked and she took a breath before plunging onward, "I don't know anymore." As much as Aziraphale was only able to feel Virtues and Love—just as demons, of course, could only feel Vices and Desires—Aziraphale had become adept at sussing out Crowley's lies and half-truths. In particular the ones she told herself.

With a sigh Aziraphale conjured a matching stool and sat beside Crowley, shifting Warlock in her arms so he could lean against her and watch Crowley as he liked. The clever boy was rather good at staying silent when it suited him, such as now.

"I think you do. I can ask Warlock, but I'd rather hear it from you, my dear girl." Aziraphale pressed and poked and prodded. Picking away, just as she always did, at all the soft spaces and chinks in Crowley's armor that she'd been given access to after so many long years on Earth together.

Crowley sighed heavily but nodded, taking a deep breath before saying quietly, "He's got to know. How to deal with those who don't do what he says. If he shows an ounce of hesitation when faced with betrayal or insubordinance..." Crowley grimaced, her dark red lips pulled thin. "Well, you remember Rome, and France, and England, and every other back-stabbing, social climbing, empathy-devoid court out there. Hell is worse... I promise you."

Aziraphale sat back, shuffling Warlock to her lap as he wiggled from her arms, and smiled softly when the sweet antichrist took his nanny's hand. He was still quiet, and as much as the boy was prone to such episodes of silence and melancholy on occasion, it still worried the angel at times. Especially after such a large emotional upheaval.

"And so, you burnt biscuits?" Aziraphale asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Crowley made a sound like a typewriter when too many letters were pressed, all clashing consonants and vowels.

"It was– he _has to know_ , angel!" Crowley hissed, suddenly pulling herself together and standing up, spine straight as an iron rod. "If he doesn't, he'll be stomped all over! Torn to pieces, if he doesn't _deal_ with those who don't obey him!"

A soft, halting sound left Aziraphale's mouth as things started to slot into place, the implications becoming clear all at once. "Oh, my dear…"

"Don't you 'my dear' me! The ange– the biscuits are _burnt_ because they _failed him_ ," Crowley growled, pointing at Warlock who was watching with wide eyes. He'd never seen his nanny in such a fit before, and it was perhaps not as terrifying as it should be. After she had been so cold and impersonal only moments ago, it was a relief to see that she still had feelings. He wrapped his arms around Sister Frances' neck and hugged her tightly, glad she could make Nanny feel again. Even if that feeling was angry.

"But he _chose_ them, Cr– Ashtoreth." Aziraphale said softly. "He had them burnt because… they disappointed him? Is that right, young man?"

Warlock nodded and sniffed. "I didn' wanna though!" He nearly screamed, suddenly desperate for her to believe him, for Nanny to believe him too. "I didn' wan' 'em to burn! I liked 'em all! I wanted to keep 'em all, they're all _**good**_ angels!"

There was a silence in the kitchen, not unlike the silence of space. Sharp and cold and filled with endless drops without any gravity to keep your bearings with.

The sprinklers hissed on the lawn outside and everything was still.

"But you chose them." Crowley said finally, her voice as soft and firm and Scottish and human as usual. "It doesn't matter why right now, but you have to know that these were the ones who disappointed you, little dragon. They asked questions, and they would have attempted to usurp you or to drag you down to their level."

Aziraphale shook her head unconsciously, pursing her lips as she listened. Crowley continued, "You must _always_ remember that you, my dear prince, are better than they could ever be. It is why you will hold dominion over your servants. It is the natural order of things that you _shalt not_ be disobeyed. And if you are; you burn them, you cast them down, and you grind them beneath your heel. You are a _great and_ _terrible_ master, and you shall be feared… Is that understood, Warlock?"

"Yes… yes, Nanny." Warlock muttered, his eyes downcast and solemn. Sometimes Crowley worried that Warlock seemed so naturally soft-hearted and intrinsically good, but she reminded herself of Aziraphale's influence and simply tried harder to make sure he'd be able to keep himself safe.

"My dear," Aziraphale cut through Crowley's thoughts, voice light but stern enough to match Crowley's own, "Why don't you have Warlock check the biscuits again? I do think you were mistaken as to their nature."

Crowley frowned at the angel. Mistaken as to their nature? Her? Of all the pompous things the daft feather-brain could have bloody remarked on, this was what she chose. Muttering under her breath about holier-than-thou angels and their high-handed, ham-fisted metaphors, Crowley turned and grabbed the third tray of burnt biscuits.

"There, angel," Crowley sneered, half-tossing them to the island that was still coated in flour from rolling out the dough earlier. The tray clattered but the biscuits didn't crack like Crowley had expected, somehow not brittle enough to break from overbaking.

Crowley narrowed her eyes and hissed, crossing over to them and poking the biscuits with a sharp finger. "Angel!" Aziraphale only raised her chin to meet Crowley's gaze head-on. She wouldn't back down this time. Not about something like this, not when it so obviously colored Crowley's teaching of the antichrist.

"They're not cast out, they're not chosen to burn, Ashtoreth," Aziraphale said softly, leaving no room for the interruption Crowley was gearing up to. "They're perfectly made, just as they are, simply different, not worse inherently."

Warlock scrambled up over Sister Frances' shoulder and onto the counter, on knobby knees and hands, to poke at the biscuits himself. They were cool already, so he picked up the first one he'd made, with a wonky neck, and bit the head off. Blackberry hair on the chocolate biscuit worked rather well.

"So we're simply made that way?" Crowley asked, lowly and dangerously calm. She sounded like Warlock had only ever heard once before, when the driver made a remark about the gardener's legs. "Were we, instead, _chosen_ before everything was made in proper, Aziraphale?!"

They were ignoring him, Warlock realized, and he'd been about to speak up and remind them but thought better of it. He could just sit here and eat all his angel biscuits as he liked and listen in. Nanny called it espi'nage and cool spies could hide and listen and learn all sorts of things they weren't supposed to know, so they could use it later.

Warlock had already found out that Nanny and the gardener liked each other _like that,_ and that Cook _liked_ Jeeves, and learned that if he talked nice about Cook in front of Jeeves then sometimes she gave him treats. Just like he learned that Nanny's _real_ name was Crow and Sister Frances was _actually_ Sister Azeeraful. Nanny always said to keep secrets in a lock-box mind and keep them secrets until it was best to use them. So, he stayed quiet and out of the way while Nanny Crow and Sister Azeeraful had a row about something he didn't really understand. Maybe Nanny got pushed off a swing in the park; but it'd have to have been someone _mean,_ cause Nanny was _nice_ and also a little scary.

"Were we made with evil sifted into the flour so we were set apart? Marked because we could be no other way?" Crowley's shout was hoarse and wet and wobbled in her throat and it took quite a bit of Aziraphale's resolve not to simply drown in unshed tears herself.

"No, of course not my dear, I mean–" Aziraphale herded Crowley back over to the stool, worried she'd collapse on unstable legs, "I can't say for sure, I don't know Her—She's a bit ineffable, hm? But I can't imagine–"

Crowley made a rude noise and rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her chest and leaning back in a way Aziraphale was sure Crowley thought was nonchalant and cool, when really it was only cagey, not unlike a downed creature protecting its soft parts.

"Of course you can't, angel." Crowley's voice was soft, as if she were explaining to a child why a cat had yowled and scratched when its tail was pulled. For some unfathomable reason, that hurt Aziraphale more. "You didn't Fall. You don't know what it's like to have that Love torn away and pulled out of you. You don't know what it was like…" Crowley breathed slowly and carefully, exactly seven seconds in and seven seconds out.

"You– you don't know what Hell was like before it was Hell. The screaming, the gnashing of teeth, all that. It's not the sinners' souls that do that, there's plenty of those that Fell right into the pits and sulfur and… just never dragged themselves out." Her eyes sharpened to a knife’s point as she made eye contact with Aziraphale. "And every single one who _did_ drag themselves out and on top of all the rest of the third are going to be raring for control and power, and fighting over themselves for anything and everything this boy is capable of. And if he shows _any_ weakness, they'll fight over whatever scraps are left once it's all said and done.

"He's just got to start it Aziraphale, nothin' ever said he'll _run_ it except the stupid opinions of demons who can't even read the cuniform it's written in…" Crowley trailed off and ran a hand over her face, miraculously not smudging her makeup in the slightest.

Aziraphale made a soft sound in the back of her throat and carefully laid a hand on Crowley's shoulder, which was flung off immediately when the demon stood in a burst of sudden movement.

"I'm not some human you can coddle, Aziraphale! You won't _redeem_ me from bloody _damnation_! Which _She_ did, if you don't quite remember! She burnt the biscuits, Aziraphale, She chucked the whole tray of 'em right off the sill and out in the mud and dirt and didn't give them another thought! Not a single one!" Crowley paced in the kitchen, her eyes blazing molten gold in the light from the sunny window Aziraphale had thrown open.

"Do you think I don't _know_ that, Crowley?!" Aziraphale shouted back, throwing her hands up in the air and her voice dripped with her frustration. "Do you think I'd _try_? You'd make a terrible angel, and you'd hate it–"

"Oh, no worse than _you_ are–" Crowley interrupted.

"Now that's uncalled for!" Aziraphale returned the favor.

"Uncalled for is your opinion, angel! Either way you slice it, it's a bad lot we were cast in. Either you believe in free will or you don't–"

"Really, Crowley, is now the time to bring up that argument again–"

"Yes, I really think it is! It's imperative, in fact! Let me give you the options, if you'd be so _kind_ ," Crowley hissed the word, pushed all her ire into it; the building, blinding rage she felt at the injustice wrought by a God who was meant to be anything but. " _Either_ we _do_ have free will, and we were punished for using it and choosing _wrong_ when we didn't even know what wrong was. Or we _don't_ have free will, and were punished because of how She made us. The bloody chocolate in the batter, Aziraphale! Or, perhaps—maybe it's worse this way, maybe it's not—we don't have free will but we were punished for doing what She'd made us do. Worse, that we took a freefall down into the pits that drove us _mad_ –"

Crowley suddenly slumped, her shoulders drooping until she looked more like a poorly hung suit than a person. Devoid of her usual verve, Aziraphale might have mistaken her for a stranger had they met on the street.

Crowley looked so obviously melancholic, that it tugged at Aziraphale's heartstrings. _Perhaps some air would help, or some liver in her diet,_ Aziraphale thought quietly to herself, _to get rid of all that excessive, melancholic black bile that was surely affecting her so._

When Crowley spoke again she was too quiet, sounding defeated. "So very, _very_ mad, angel, and if She just… arbitrarily decided on it. That one's worse, I think. And I think about it quite a bit, asked all the 'whys' in existence about it probably, too," Crowley's face contorted in a vicious sneer aimed at the roof, "And yet it's still, bloody, terribly, worst-ly _ineffable_. I hate that word."

Aziraphale was silent, there wasn't anything for her to say. Crowley had said quite a lot more than she'd ever had before, even at their drunkest. And considering this wasn't a topic they touched at all while sober, it was quite a display of vulnerability. Aziraphale wasn't very sure what to do with a vulnerable demon—the annoying voice that quoted the _Manual of Celestial Conduct and Protocols: Earth Edition_ and sounded quite a lot like Gabriel at his smarmiest, spoke up very promptly to suggest a smiting, but Aziraphale firmly pushed that idea away—she knew what worked best for vulnerable humans.

She pulled Crowley into a hug, ever mindful not to be directly in front of the windows, enveloping the poor creature with her arms. Unable to compete with Crowley's heels while in her own sensible work shoes, Aziraphale only came up to Crowley's shoulder, so she wasn't able to cradle the woman as she deserved; but like this she could lift up, just a little, and let Crowley know she wasn't the only one left who was willing to support her weight, no matter how heavy it was.

"I think," Aziraphale murmured softly. She knew there was no way to _un_ do anything that had already been done, there might be a way past it for them, and at the very least, "You ought to look at Warlock's biscuits, my dear."

Crowley grumbled and groused under her breath; in a way that unwound the iron band wrapped tight around Aziraphale's chest, letting her breathe easier even as she let go of the demon. Crowley straightened her shoulders and looked over to Warlock, walking over to the island and reaching for her glasses where they sat beside the baking tray. At the last second, just before reaching them, she recoiled and looked to Warlock, her eyes bright and shining with unshed tears.

"Are ya upset with me, my little dragon?" Crowley asked carefully.

Warlock shook his head and raised his hands in silent entreaty. The full force of a demon grabbing him and hugging him close to her chest knocked the air right out of him in a loud whuff.

"Oh, you sweet thing," Crowley lamented, stroked his head and whispered directly into his hair with a gentle press of her lips. "You're far _too nice_ to your Nanny, my duckling."

"Biscuits, Nanny!" he demanded, wriggling like the little monster she'd always encouraged him to be and startling a laugh out of Crowley. She very quickly returned her dark glasses to her face, hiding her eyes once more from the world at large.

"Alright, you menace! Why did–" She cut herself off, shaking her head even as she adjusted Warlock in her arms to be more comfortable, and walked over to the angels that had survived the culling. That particular line of questioning wasn't something she could handle at the present moment, despite having intended all along to make the boy think about what he'd done, and why.

It all felt just a little too brittle, too crumbly.

The moment she saw the biscuit made to look like her—clothed in red with peach wings—sitting pretty and whole on the first tray taken from the oven, her soul was punched from her body.

"Oh, very well done, my little prince," she heard herself praise and croon over Warlock's babbling—first about the treats, and then a long, involved story about how the ‘Sister Frances’ and ‘Nanny’ angels were best friends and his bodyguards in the Kingdom he'd one day rule with an iron fist. It passed by in a blur Crowley could scarcely remember, though she thought if she tried, she might be able to pick out specifics about what Warlock said. But it was all just… too much.

She trembled finely, and was glad for Warlock's exuberant gesturing which hid the tremor in her arms. Eventually, Aziraphale looked at the time and exclaimed about it, pulling Crowley back into her body and the present.

"Ah, right, right." She tripped over her tongue, feeling it thick and leaden in her mouth, and nodded sharply, "You're right, it's nearly dinner, isn't it? We ought to let the rest of the world get back to work, hm?"

Crowley snapped her fingers to clean the kitchen, and only moments later Cook bustled in with her assistant in tow. They began setting out things for dinner in a hurry, but paid no attention to Nanny or the gardener. There was so much to be done, with dinner only an hour or so off—too much to be wondering or worrying about anything but readying the kitchen for dinner.

Crowley let herself and Warlock be shooed out of the space alongside Aziraphale, out into the garden. Into the brightness of the summer sun, not quite ready to set just yet. Crowley pulled Warlock into her arms and cuddled him close with a sigh.

"Angel, I–" Crowley began, but cut herself off. There was a lot to say and she couldn't quite manage any of it. "Never mind. Better not…"

Aziraphale turned to face her little thatch-roof cottage across the lawn, half-hidden by azalea bushes planted atop decorative walls. "It's alright, my dear girl," she replied, soft and unceasingly gentle with all the things Crowley wasn't saying, that neither of them could.

"I like chocolate biscuits just as much as the plain sort, you know," Aziraphale said suddenly after a brief bout of quiet stillness had stretched between them. The crickets had begun chirping lazily, making their noises as the shadows of the trees and walls grew longer. The sky was turning a brilliant red, and on the far horizon, stars were beginning to peek through the tinted atmosphere.

"Oh?" Crowley replied, just as quietly.

"Yes, I think it'd be a poorer world without things like chocolate, and spices, to change how things are flavored. Whether or not it's an accident, or on purpose. I don't think that it matters, really, in the grand scheme of things, if a distant baker meant to make Their biscuits like that. Only that I…"

Aziraphale took a deep breath, short and sharp and full of so much _potential._ In the way that precariously balanced fruits on trees have so much potential energy stored up in them, unrealized until it was cut loose from the branch and _fell_. "Only that I love them, you see. As long as there's someone out there like that, I think it'll be alright."

"Yeah." Crowley murmured, "Yeah, that sounds good."

* * *

"Nanny?" Warlock asked in a tiny voice, already tucked snug as a bug into bed.

"Yes, my little dragon?" Crowley replied, standing in the doorway with one hand on the frame, her face half-turned to look back at him.

"Are you mad?" the child blurted, squeezing his eyes shut and fisting his hands in the blankets, fearing the answer. "At me, I mean?"

"I–" Crowley's voice caught in her throat until she lowered it, soft and soothing as any lullaby, "Of course not, Warlock. I am… very sorry about earlier today. I shouldn't have treated you like that."

"No," Warlock agreed. Nanny had taught him not to say "it's ok" like everyone else just because someone apologized. It "undetermined his authority," she always said, or something like that.

"I forgive you," Warlock said when Nanny stayed quiet. Nanny might say sorry sometimes, even when she really didn't want to, but she _never_ asked for forgiveness. Not like Sister Frances, who said sorry to trees and flowers and bees and butterflies and biscuits and Cook and all sorts of people and things. Warlock thought that was a little weird, that Nanny _never_ asked forgiveness, and Sister Frances _always_ did. Many years down the road, when Warlock is a young adult, this particular day will come up in therapy and he will realize how sad it had really been. But for now, it was just a little weird, another quirk that made him love Nanny all the more.

"Of course, my little prince. Whatever you like." He heard her heels clack softly over thinly carpeted floors and the click of the door closing all the way, leaving Warlock alone with his stars and constellations lamp projecting them onto the ceilings and walls. He was asleep in minutes–even little dragons need their rest after such an exhausting day.

* * *

Hours later, Aziraphale knocked gently on Crowley's door. It was past midnight and she was worried that she didn't hear from Crowley after Warlock had gone to bed. Surely he must be asleep by now, even if he'd put up a fight about it… And when no answer came, she carefully let herself in. The door had been locked, of course, but she hadn't known it, so the knob clicked softly and moved underneath her hand obediently.

"Oh, my poor dear," Aziraphale breathed. Crowley was there in front of her vanity with all the lights in the room off, lit only by the moonlight reflecting from the large window overlooking the gardens. The curtains were still drawn fully open from her breakfast with Warlock in the reading nook that morning.

The glass of the mirror was shattered in at the base as if it had been struck, the bedsheets were torn, and all her clothing and keepsakes were strewn about the room as if thrown. Some of them were cracked or ruined, which only made Aziraphale more sure about her assessment. Crowley herself was on top of her stool, arms crossed on the vanity surface with her head pillowed on them. At her elbow sat an empty bottle of rather expensive whiskey, its freshly broken seal still on the edge. The knife she'd used to do it teetered on the vanity’s edges, coated in crumbly, black wax. There weren't any cups around.

Aziraphale felt like all she had done today was sigh. She knew it helped regulate human breathing, and that there were all sorts of sighs, as wide and varied as the situations humans found themselves in, but for now it felt like too much. Her lungs had felt tight and bruised in her chest ever since she'd walked in on a smoking oven and burnt biscuits while her dem– a demon frightened a child. It felt like bearing witness in all the worst ways, when she was forbidden from interfering and _helping_.

So, she bit back another sigh and waded past the mess on the floor, slowly approaching where Crowley sat, insensate, at her vanity. As she passed the bed she fixed the sheets with a miracle, but the rest she resolved to leave for the morning. She tapped Crowley’s shoulder lightly, ready to spring back in case she woke in a panic; but when the demon didn’t wake, she bit her lip to keep silent.

"My dear, this is no way to fall asleep…" Aziraphale murmured, and slowly plucked the pins that must surely be digging into her scalp from her hair. With curls a little looser, Aziraphale gently picked Crowley up with an arm behind her shoulders and under her knees and holding Crowley close to her chest.

Carefully, she walked them to the bed and laid Crowley on it, and—thinking better of her miracle expenditure in the last twenty minutes—removed her somewhat-sensibly heeled shoes, then untucked her shirt hem from the waist of her trousers. She hoped it would give Crowley at least a little respite and comfort, for it was as much as she was comfortable giving without Crowley’s explicit permission.

She sat on the bed, ignoring how perfectly her hip fit into the slight dip and curve of Crowley's waist, and how the demon curled towards her like a sunflower toward the light.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said quietly, stroking the demon's hair away from her face. "I truly can't imagine anyone _not_ wanting you. Around, of course, I mean... my dear girl. One might, possibly, not be able to admit it, however. One might, even, be very _willing_ to admit their heart, if one was sure one wouldn't cause harm by it. To you. Of course…" She sighed and stood from her perch on the side of the bed, crossing to the door and cleaning up the mess with a wave of her hand as she passed by it. She locked the door behind her.

"G'night, angel..." Crowley mumbled, a single eye cracked open just enough to watch covertly as Aziraphale left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you _so much_ to cassie-oh and sosobriquet and tarek who beta'd for me! I ignored quite a few of your phrasing suggestions, so thank you for liking me anyway. 
> 
> This chapter was extremely hard to write. It was difficult and it left me a lot raw and feeling like I've been scraped out beyond my ability to be so. So if any of you have anything you'd like to talk about because of it, feel free to hit me up. In comments, on Tumblr PMs, on discord, whatever. 
> 
> It's a tough subject for a lot of people, rightfully so, and you are not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me in a couple of places!
> 
> Twitter: <https://twitter.com/Great_Ass_aFire>  
> Tumblr: <https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/>
> 
> All my graphics/photomanips are there plus you can find updates on anything if you send me an ask or message! I also take graphic/banner/emoji requests and writing prompts/requests.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Joy of Cooking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25187380) by [MagpieWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieWords/pseuds/MagpieWords)




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